Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 69, No. 424, February 1851

And if they spoke in blasphemy,
So shall they die in shame!

XIII

To death – to death! The stake is near,
The faggots piled around;
The men-at-arms have made their ring,
The spearmen take their ground;
The torches, reeking in the sun,
Send up their heavy fume;
And by the pile the torturer
Is waiting for the doom.
With earnest eye and steadfast step,
Approach the martyr twain —
"Our cross!" they said – then kissed the stake,
And bowed them to the chain.

XIV

Short be the pang! – Not yet, not yet!
The Tempter lingers near —
Rome parts not with her victims so;
A Priest is at their ear.
"Life – life, and pardon! say the word,
Why still so stubborn be?
Do homage to our Lord the Pope —
One word, and you are free!
O brothers! yield ye even now —
Speak but a single name —
Salvation lies not but with Rome;
Why die in raging flame?"

XV

Then out spoke aged Latimer: —
"I tarry by the stake,
Not trusting to my own weak heart,
But for the Saviour's sake.
Why speak of life or death to me,
Whose days are but a span?
Our crown is yonder – Ridley – see!
Be strong, and play the man.
God helping, such a torch this day
We'll light on English land,
That Rome and all her Cardinals
Shall never quench the brand!"

XVI

They died. O ask not how they died!
May never witness tell,
That once again on English ground
Was wrought that deed of hell!
The Consul, mad for Christian blood,
Even in his deadliest rage,
Was human when he opened up
The famished lion's cage —
More human far than they of Rome,
Who claimed the Christian name,
When those, the ministers of Christ,
Were writhing in the flame!

XVII

Harlot of Rome! and dost thou come
With bland demeanour now?
The bridal-smile upon thy lips,
The flush upon thy brow —
The cup of sorcery in thy hand,
Still in the same array,
As when our fathers in their wrath
Dashed it and thee away?
No! by the ashes of the saints,
Who died beneath thy hand,
Thou shalt not dare to claim as thine
One foot of English land!

XVIII

The echo of thy tread shall make
The light still higher burn —
A blaze shall rise from Cranmer's grave
And martyred Ridley's urn!
A blaze which they who own thy power
Shall stand aghast to see,
A blaze that in your infamy
Shall show both them and thee!
Yes! send thy Cardinals again —
Once more array thy powers —
Their watchword is, The Pope of Rome —
The Word of God, be ours!

    W. I.

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE. – PART VI

BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON

CHAPTER XIII